


A Sweet Litany on Your Lips

by Evesi



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Creed III, I am so sorry Connor, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:22:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evesi/pseuds/Evesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He believes it proper recompense for all that the boy has done, for all the trouble he has caused, and for all the work he has destroyed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sweet Litany on Your Lips

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt on the AssCreed kink meme: _After the Tea Party incident, the Assassin has always been on Charles' mind and he's actually aroused by the idea that the highly skilled killer is targeting him in particular. He's plagued by dreams of putting the boy in his place more than taking over Washington's position. He gets his chance when the Assassin is arrested. Instead of Bridewell prison, Connor awakes up in a much more disturbing place... chained to Charles' bed._
> 
> _Would love if the fill included:_  
>  \- Noncon or dubcon... or both, Charles gets Connor to submit after having his way with him several times
> 
> _\- Imagine Charles putting a cock ring on Connor to prevent him from cumming as he takes his time preparing and finger-fucking him. Removes it later when Charles is about to cum himself and Connor begs for release._
> 
> _\- A few rounds later, Hickey barges in and wants a turn but Charles is crazy possessive and snaps at him_
> 
> /goes to wallow in a hole now

Day and night, night and day, the thought plagued him in a way that no other had: he wanted the Assassin at his mercy in the basest, most humiliating way possible. Too many times had that brat ruined the Order’s plans, too many times he had hurt their cause. Charles knew all too well that Connor sought his head, and while many individuals would have been frozen with fear by the prospect of having such a trained killer after them, _he_ found it terribly arousing.

In this way, Assassin and Templar were similar: they were obsessed with each other.

Drawn together in conflict over and over again, he had bided his time and waited for the opportune moment, waited for when he could strike, and now, at last, Charles had his chance. Connor had arrived, like a neat package, on his doorstep earlier that day, courtesy of Hickey’s side activities and the trouble that it had earned him--not that he particularly _cared_ for what the man did on the side, so long as he completed his tasks for the Order.

Six hours later found Connor naked in his room, hands bound to the headboard with the red sash he wore as a belt. The Assassin was slow to rouse from his drug-induced sleep, and briefly, Charles found himself wishing that they had used less of it. The medication had been necessary, see, for transport, but he doubted anyone else would have thought he’d use the effects for such nefarious purposes afterwards...

“Wake up, boy,” he muttered, now tired of waiting. Charles brought his hand down, hard, against his cheek, and Connor yelped, eyes flying open, body jerking against the ties that bound him. His lips curled into a sneer as Connor struggled, drowsiness all but evaporating from the lines of his body, and his smile only broadened when those eyes finally settled and focused on him.

There was anger in his gaze--a bright and fierce fury--but he found only delight in it. What was the point of breaking something already broken? Connor had _spirit_ , and _that_ would bring him far more delight to take.

“ _Lee_. Release me,” Connor growled, pulling against the sash to the point that it bit into his wrists. Charles did nothing to discourage him from doing so and merely pressed his hands against his thighs, just in case he got the wise idea to try kicking him. The Assassin, he had to admit, had a beautiful body: all bronzed skin and powerful muscle--all untouched, too, he imagined. After all, what time would he have to play when he was so busy ruining their plans?

“I’ll do no such thing.” He leaned in, hovering inches away from Connor’s face, who frowned and looked as if he would try to bite if he got any closer. “I’ve yet to have my fun with you, boy.”

“You will not break me with physical torment.”

He almost had to laugh at the comment. Here he was, bound and naked, and Connor was thinking of an entirely different sort of torture. Such naivete! Oh, Charles had no doubt that the Assassin had a high pain tolerance and would keep his lips sealed should a blade be applied to his skin, but what he had planned... Well, Connor would have no training for this.

With no preamble, he grabbed Connor’s cock, which earned him a startled noise and eyes wide with surprise. The verbal protests started a moment later, shifting fluidly between English and Mohawk, and at the risk of getting bitten, Charles bent and kissed him--hungry and demanding, tongue pushing into the other’s mouth. And when he could not vocalize his discomfort, Connor took to shifting beneath him, a writhing mess that only went to arouse Charles all the more. Clothed though he was, he relished the press of hips and chest against him, brief it might have been, and the warmth that he felt...

He needed to speed up his plans, if only to satiate his own desires.

Hands fumbling about, he managed to find the tie in the Assassin’s hair and pulled it free. Charles sat back then, tasting copper on his tongue, but it didn’t really matter, didn’t bother him that the boy had drawn blood as he wiped at his lips with the back of his hand. Connor was staring at him now, eyes wide with disbelief, and Charles could see understanding slowly but surely dawning upon the Assassin.

And then there it was: the flicker of fear.

“You would not--”

“I would,” Charles answered, moving swiftly to straddle Connor’s abdomen. In hindsight, it would have been better to bind the Assassin’s legs, but it would prove to be a hindrance later--and _later_ was the event he looked forward to the most. No, for now, he would tolerate the kicking and flailing, and it was with a calm touch that he took the hair tie he’d removed and circled it around the base of Connor’s cock and around his balls, knotting it neatly when he was done.

Connor stilled as he finished, and he could practically _feel_ the tension radiating off of the Assassin’s body. The boy drew up his knees, tried to shift his legs into a number of different positions in hopes of shielding himself, but Charles would not be so easily put off, not when he wanted and craved and desired for so long. His own cock ached within the confines of his breeches, and he huffed in irritation.

“Desist your fruitless struggles,” he hissed, looking over his shoulder at Connor, who only redoubled his efforts to buck his captor off. Charles muttered an oath and took hold of the boy’s penis, his grip tight in warning. Connor stopped struggling then, breath catching in his throat, and while there was still anxiety written into every fiber of his being, he behaved for the time being. It was then and only then that Charles loosened his grip a little, even stroking his cock as if to assuage him.

Behind him, Connor bit his lip and turned his head to the side, ashamed, as his body betrayed him.

Satisfied for the time being, Charles allowed his free hand to slide down past the Assassin’s balls to toy at his hole. His fingertip circled the ring of tight muscle and then pushed at it, making a pleased sound at how little give there was; Connor shuddered, knees automatically drawing up and toes curling in the sheets. The boy squirmed oh so delightfully, but to progress further, Charles would have to stop teasing him--for now.

He slipped off the bed and rummaged through one of the drawers in his dresser, producing a small bottle of oil, which he proceeded to toss onto the bed; Connor’s eyes followed its path through the air with great agitation and proceeded to stare at it, as if it were a bomb, when it came to a rest between his legs. “Consider yourself fortunate,” Charles said as he stripped, easily discarding one item of clothing after another; they lay strewn across the floor as he returned to the bed. “I’ve half a mind to take you dry.

“Roll over.”

Connor did nothing, said nothing. His mouth was open, but it seemed that his shock had stolen his voice. Finally, Charles grabbed the Assassin by the hips and forcibly flipped him over. He cursed softly when, again, Connor put up resistance, tugging at his bonds and pushing with his feet, but when he applied his hand to the boy’s backside, he yielded. Though the skin reddened under his touch and his palm stung, Charles did not doubt it was the surprise that quelled Connor, not the pain.

“On your knees, boy.”

“No,” Connor bit out, but there was no force behind his voice. In fact, Charles was of the mind that there was a quiver to it, and his cock twitched at the thought that the boy was afraid--afraid of _him_. He delighted in being able to wield such power, and again, he pressed a finger against the Assassin’s entrance, threatening.

“Do as I say, or you’ll have nought for slick when I take you,” he murmured, his voice filled with dark promise. “And I _will_ have you.” His lips split into a smile as Connor obeyed after briefly glancing over his shoulder. The embarrassed flush that had first appeared a few minutes ago had now reached his ears, and Charles pressed a hand to his spine, stroking in a mockery of gentleness. He could feel the boy’s body twitch beneath his fingertips, could feel the tension that strung him out.

Grabbing the bottle of oil, he uncorked it and allowed the fluid to dribble down the cleft of Connor’s arse, and he gasped, goosebumps rising on his skin. Charles hummed as he smeared the liquid over and around his hole before sinking a finger in to the knuckle in one fluid movement. Below him, Connor whined and buried his face in his arms as best as he could. His hair fell into his face, and idly, Charles thought it a shame that he couldn’t watch the expressions flit across the boy’s face.

Charles withdrew his finger, only to sink two inside him, and this time, instead of a whine, he was rewarded with a moan--a moan that spoke of pain, not pleasure. Connor’s hands hit the mattress with a soft thump; his fingers clawed at the sheets as his entire body tensed, trying desperately to force the intrusion _out_. “Stop,” he gasped, and all Charles did was fuck him harder. “ _Please._ ”

“ _Be still_ ,” he said, and while he did not remove his fingers, Charles did reach for the Assassin’s cock and began to stroke, timing each glide of the hand with the thrust of his fingers. The pitch of his sounds changed again, and the set of Connor’s knees widened--whether or not it was in an attempt to find a more comfortable position or subtle way of begging for more was hard to say at this point. Curious, Charles endeavored to find out.

Three fingers forced a howl out of Connor, made a fine sheen of sweat appear on his skin. His back arched, and his toes curled. The Assassin panted, sucking down lungfuls of air, as his hips twitched; Charles gave his cock a squeeze and ran the pad of his thumb over the stretched ring of his entrance. Connor’s arse still clenched around him--delicious, velvety heat--and for a moment, Charles thought to give up preparing the boy and take him then and there.

What did it matter to him if he caused him injury? They were enemies, men of different ideals; there could be no compromise between them. _This_ was an exercise in power in the basest of ways, but it was that very same notion that stayed Charles’ desires, reminded him of his ultimate goal here. True, to take him now would be humiliating, but there was more to this than mere degradation. To make the Assassin _enjoy_ this, to have him begging Charles to fuck him harder, to grant him release: oh, that would make his submission all that much sweeter.

A quiet mantra of pleas for him to stop spilled past Connor’s lips, but his words fell on deaf ears. The thrust of Charles’ fingers angled and twisted, searching, and then the Assassin was keening, the curl of his fingers in the sheets taking on renewed strength. Connor panted, hips shifting as if trying to find that sweet spot again, and Charles, being the _oh so generous_ individual that he was, delivered with increasing enthusiasm. The litany of no’s had now shifted into one of groans, unintelligible speech, and the most erotic delivery of the word “please” that Charles had ever heard.

Whether or not that was a “please stop” or “please continue” did not matter to him.

Connor’s cock was hot and heavy in his hand now, and when Charles released it, the Assassin moaned its loss--louder still was the sound of his voice when he withdrew his fingers. There was a frustrated hint to his cries now, and while the boy would still not look at him, head bowed and pressed against the sheets, his body had taken on a different sort of tension: tension sprung from release denied.

\--Which was not something he intended to do to _himself_.

For all the attention he’d been giving to Connor, his own cock remained untouched, and Charles hissed when he stroked it with one oil-slicked hand. The tight curl of his fist, however, was not what he wanted, and he was quick to line himself up behind the Assassin and push inside, sinking hilt deep with one cruel stroke. He growled at the way Connor seized around him, and the boy made a broken sound, legs falling wide.

“Out!” he cried, shifting restlessly. “Take it out, I--” The rest of his speech dissolved into Mohawk, and Charles pressed the entirety of his weight down on Connor, one arm folding around his middle to hold him in place, the other moving to stroke at a flagging erection.

“ _Relax_ , damn you!” he hissed. Difficult thought it was for him, Charles stilled his hips, waiting until Connor ceased struggling. The seconds ticked by; the air filled with the sounds of their rough breathing. Connor fell silent at last, his body slick with sweat, but his knuckles remained bone-white as he clenched at the sheets, as if they were his only salvation. Even then, Charles remained motionless, waited until Connor thrust weakly into his fist of his own accord.

Taking that as his cue, Charles resumed his actions, his thrusts long and deep--rocking the body of the Assassin with each roll of his hips. Each movement forced a small sound out of Connor, and every now and then, he was rewarded with a shuddering moan when his cock grazed that special spot within the boy. It took more than a few tries to at last get the angle right, but when he found his rhythm, Charles made it a point to try for it with every stroke he made.

Slowly but surely, Connor’s interest in this was stirring back to life. It was in the way he breathed, in the slight pitch changes of his voice, and, to Charles’ delight, in the way he began to rock his body, meeting his thrusts with the slightest roll of the hips. For his efforts, Charles replied with rougher, harder strokes--each one causing the bed to creak loudly beneath them.

This was glorious--glorious, glorious! The clench of the boy’s body around him was as wonderful as he’d imagined--no, _better_ \--and with each thrust, Charles could feel himself teetering closer and closer to the edge. Beneath him, Connor’s vocalizations suggested that he, too, was approaching a precipice; once more, the word “please” spilled past his lips, growing ever louder in volume. The shift of his hips became more restless, and he began to tug at the sash at his wrists again.

“Lee--” His voice was breathless and raw--pure eroticism to his ears.

Charles released Connor’s cock and planted that hand in those brown locks, shoving his head down into the mattress. “What is it you want, Assassin?”

“I--”

“Say it!”

Connor whined and panted; it was as if he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs to speak. “The ties... Please!” The Assassin struggled against the hand that held his head down. “I need to-- _ah!_ ”

It had taken some fumbling, but Charles found it and tugged, the hair tie at last falling to the wayside. Connor spilled a moment later on a ragged cry, the shudder running through his body from tip to tail. Charles growled as he rode it out, felt the boy clench all around him, and when at last he went boneless, Charles resumed his own quest for completion. Hands braced on Connor’s hips, he fucked him hard-- _ruthless_ \-- ignoring the quiet whimpers of pain below him. His entire body felt like a bowstring drawn impossibly tight, and finally, _finally_ , he snapped, spilling inside the boy with a growl.

For a few quiet seconds, he did nothing, soaking in the feeling of euphoria, and then he withdrew, earning himself a soft keening noise from the boy. Charles rubbed the pad of his thumb over the abused hole, pleased with his work, and then slid off the bed. As he padded away to the bathroom, Connor collapsed against the mattress, uncaring of the mess he lay in. Exhaustion--physical, mental, and emotional--exacted its toll on him, and he slept, hair clinging to sweat-slicked skin and hands still bound to the headboard.

\--Not that Charles would allow him much rest. He’d wake the boy up less than an hour later to repeat it all, again and again and again.


End file.
